Second Chance
by savage benediction
Summary: Slash. ErikRaoul. They're moving slow but starting to gain speed. And now Erik may have the little bit of encouragement he needs to really try this.
1. A New Beginning Ends

Title: Second Chance

Summary: It's rare to get a second chance, and even rarer for people to realize that's what it is.

Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, if I did, trust me, things would have been rather different.

Author's Notes: There aren't enough Erik/Raoul stories, so I borrowed the ol' amnesia ploy and gave it to this wonderful, complex pairing, here's hoping they can make something out of it.

The ceremony went off without a hitch. Well actually it had gone off with a hitch, that was the point of a matrimony ceremony, but it definitely had been performed without the sudden appearance of a scarred madman trying to kidnap the bride which made it a success in Raoul's mind. The reception was equally marvelous, maybe more so once that the pressure was off and the Vicomte could actually take his hand off his sword and his eyes off the shadows of the room. There was cake and dancing and his childhood sweetheart swirling in his arms like they were nothing more than innocent playmates again. But then it was time for the honeymoon to start and the happy couple's race to the carriage amidst a flurry of rice. Raoul smiled as he gave Christine his hand to help her into the carriage.

"After you, Mademoiselle de Chagny," he whispered to her as she slipped into the carriage. She was a vision in her wedding gown and she smiled back sweetly at him, love shining in her eyes. _This_, Raoul though as he waved to the smiling relatives from the window of the carriage, _is the happiest moment in my life_. A breathtaking wedding with Christine becoming more beautiful with every step she took closer to the alter where he waited, the reception magnificent surrounded by friends and loved ones wishing them well, and finally sitting beside her as they rode, fittingly enough, into a beautiful sunset. As lovely a vision as that was, it did nothing to help the carriage driver's sight. Five minutes later the carriage overturned going over a small bridge that was being repaired. The carriage toppled to the right, and Christine managed a short scream before one of the workman's tools crashed through the glass and into her skull.

When Raoul woke up he was lying on something soft and warm. He opened his eyes groggily expecting to see the familiar surroundings of his room, instead he saw the blood covered torso of the woman he was sprawled atop. He yanked himself up and the world immediately spun. He groaned and tried to focus on not throwing up on the gravely injured young woman.

"Mademoiselle?" he asked when the black spots disappeared from his vision. He shook her gently. "Mademoiselle, are you alright?" He heard the sounds of shouts from outside the carriage and leveled himself up as best he could in order to push out the door of the carriage not half submerged in water.

The workers on the bridge had heard the commotion and had raced over in time to see a young man struggling to pull himself out of the carriage while trying to blink the blood out of his eyes. He swayed gently for a moment as he raised a hand to his forehead, before pulling it away in shock to stare at the warm liquid smeared across his palm. Two of the men immediately ran up to him to pull him out.

"Wait just one moment Monsieur, we shall get you someplace that can mend that." One of the men murmured as he surveyed the damage. The boy seemed to rally at that.

"Wait, there's a woman in there, in a worse condition than myself," he said. "She looks like she has a head wound in dire need of dressing.

"Does anyone know who she is?"

Author's Note: I'd like to thank my Beta, Alchemy Hael. She has an awesome fic out, go read it. Oh, and thank you for reading this far. Good night and good luck.


	2. Returning to the Scene of the Crime

Title: Second Chance, ch. 2 Returning to the Scene of the Crime

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Leroux and Webber are the men.

Briefly: Thanks to those who reviewed, especially whoever tipped me to the Madam/Mademoiselle thing, if I knew how to fix it I would, you're a peach for giving the constructive crit. And now, without further ado...

It was amazing how fast time could pass when you had suffered from a massive head injury. It had been a month since the accident, and had Raoul and Christine not chosen to take that particular path from the reception hall they would only just now be returning from their honeymoon. Christine would have begun her voice lessons again, with a normal, _sane_ teacher this time, and Raoul would have gone back to the Opera House to supervise the rebuilding of his Opera House.

It was comforting to know that despite what curves Fate threw at you, eventually life would return to normal, nothing could divorce you from your responsibilities but death. That's why Raoul had returned to the Opera House today, when he would have anyway, had the circumstances been different.

Andre and Firmin came up to him the moment he walked in the door.

"Hello Monsieur de Chagny," Andre said with a smile extending his hand, "My name is Gilles Andre and this is my associate Richard Firmin it is our pleasure to welcome you to the _new_ Opera Populaire." Raoul frowned but took the outstretched hand.

"I know who you are Andre, I've only lost a year, not my mind." Andre had the decency to look embarrassed and Firmin spoke up.

"Well, we weren't exactly sure how much you remembered and thought it best…" Raoul waved his hand at Firmin's explanations and sighed.

"No, I'm sorry; it's just that I've spent the last month having every person I know talk to me like a simpleton or a child. As near as the doctor can figure I have all my memories up until, oh, eleven months ago?" He sighed. "As I'm sure you are aware, that is why I am here. The memories I have are of a happy, single young man. And now I am told I am widower who had just been through some rather harrowing experience in the Opera Populaire." He turned and began walking up the marble staircase, managers following closely at his heels. "My physician says that I have a better chance of recovering more memories if I can be in a place that reminds me of them. Seeing the same sights, smelling the same smells…" he hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs before turning right and continuing down a small corridor in the same confident manner.

"We really would like to help you Monsieur de Chagny but are you really sure that staying in the Opera House is going to help? I mean, perhaps some things are best left buri-…" Andre trailed off before he could completely embarrass himself, but Raoul's pace didn't even slow.

Andre gave a beseeching look to Firmin who took a turn.

"It's just that the repairs aren't finished and it is an Opera house we don't really have any guest bedrooms…"

"I'm sure I can find some place to hole up for the night." He finally stopped walking to turn and smile at them. "Now gentlemen, please don't let me keep you from your duties, I'm sure I can do a little exploring on my own without a guide," and he started shooing them slowly back down the corridor.

"Well…if you're sure," Firmin said.

"Of course, of course, go on, see to the repairs, check in on the dancers, all those necessary jobs you do." Andre and Firmin exchanged A Look.

"We do need to see to a few things," Andre said uncertainly and Firmin nodded hesitantly.

"Yes there is the matter of the new chandelier being installed…" They both shuddered slightly.

"Yes that definitely needs to be supervised."

"Then it's all settled," Raoul said, and gave the managers one final nudge down the hallway to get them started, "We'll meet up at the boxes in two hours."

Author's Note: Right now the goal is to update every 10 days or so. If I start getting lazy feel free to slap me with a flame. Or choose not to. Depending on whether you have a soul or not.

Once again, love to my beta, Alchemy Hael.


	3. Interlude for a Ghost

Chapter Title: Interlude for a Ghost

Disclaimer: I don't own it, I won't say it again.

Since the death of his student he had been... seeing things. Christine disappearing around a corner, a whispered melody sung in her voice, a glimpse of her hair sparkling in the candlelight. The first time the Phantom saw _him_ he thought it was a mistake.

He'd imagined much of Hersince the accident but never had he imagined the man she'd run off with. For a moment he stood still and closed his eyes, sure that a few moments of darkness and concentration would get rid of the figment. Then he heard the off-key, masculine voice hum a few bars of Don Juan, so quietly it seemed almost an accident. His eyes snapped open.

It took less than ten seconds to get from his seat in Box Five to the spot right above center stage. He searched furiously for the unwelcome apparition only to find that he was no longer there. He flew through the catwalks above the stage, leaping through the ropes, and peering around every pillar trying to catch another glimpse of the man who wandered the Opera House, unsure whether he wanted to see him or not.

When he did, the Phantom gritted his teeth and a low growl escaped his throat. It _was_ him, and he was headed up the servant's stairs that lead to first five boxes. Red swam in front of the Phantom's eyes.

How dare that insolent brat show his face here again!

Author's Note: This isn't going to count as the chapter update; I just didn't want to put Erik's POV at the beginning of more Raoul centered jazz. Plus I have over a hundred hits and it made me wanna write something. Love and apples to my beta (who was nearly co-writer on this little drabble) and thanks to anyone who reviewed.


	4. Stirrings of A Memory

Chapter title: Stirrings of a Memory

In hindsight, wandering alone around a newly remodeled building that was meant to hold a thousand people probably wasn't the brightest thing Raoul had ever done. But he could almost convince himself that as he silently treaded his way through the Opera House he would suddenly stumble upon Christine sitting in a bright corner somewhere. Up she'd jump and, laughing at her little game of hide and seek, she'd congratulate him on finding her.

But Raoul hadn't stumbled upon her, and he hadn't stumbled upon any of his missing memories. All he found was an excessive amount of dust, lazy carpenters and, finally, the stage. If there was any place that Raoul might have remembered something the stage was the most likely place. He'd stood almost in the center of the stage and sensed… something. He felt like the floor was about to give out from underneath him. And he felt like eyes were on him. The sensation had him beating a hasty retreat, toward a set of stairs he'd seen in the half-light of the workers lamps.

And then there had been the Box, Box Five, and just the thought of those words together sent a flash of red through his mind, quick as lightning but significantly less illuminating. He'd stopped and stared at the door for a moment, concentrating while his eye traced the outline of the small five carved into the door, trying to coax the feeling back. A minute passed, then two, but the feeling refused to return; Raoul sighed and rolled his shoulders back.

"Right then," he muttered to himself, "obviously standing in the hallway is not going to jog my memory and I've never been daft enough to stare at a door for several minutes without walking in." And he did so.

Twenty minutes later the managers found him, still there, standing in Box Five, staring at the back of the chair with a rather peculiar expression on his face. The two men exchanged a look before Firmin quietly cleared his throat. Raoul blinked and came back to himself and with a sigh, turned to look at them.

"Monsieur de Chagny, we don't wish to intrude but…"

"We wanted to know if you'd like to visit her old room."

He did.

When he walked inside her room the managers didn't follow, maybe they'd decided he needed to be alone, or maybe they had duties, it might have been that they just did not want to enter the room of a dead woman. Whatever the reason, Raoul found himself alone in a dark, smoke scented room, with furniture scattered around covered in white cloth.

A bit like his mind actually, he could see the vaguest outlines but nothing clear enough to clearly tell what it was. He walked through the small room, yanking off a sheet here, pulling a drape up there, hoping that the next cloth lifted would lift the fog in his mind with it. It wasn't long before all the furniture was bare and Raoul was sinking down on the bed as he glared around the room. Everything in the room was uncovered and yet _none of it_ had brought back the slightest recollection. He sighed again and let his head sink down into his hands.

And then he sneezed.

And coughed.

And _then_ he realized that he'd just plopped down onto half of the wraps he'd thrown carelessly on the bed, and they were dusty.

Sniffling he got up and walked over to the large window covered by one of those infernal pieces of muslin, not even stopping to consider for a minute how Christine had managed a room with a view of the city with her lowly position in the corps de ballet. So it came as a complete shock when he pulled the cloth off and found, instead of a window, the shiny surface of a mirror.

He stumbled back a step as images assaulted his mind. A raging fire, a woman screaming, and a low voice whispering, "Your hand at the level of your eyes." He felt his foot twisting in a cloth left carelessly on the floor but did nothing to stop his fall in his fear that doing so might draw his concentration away from the images in his mind. The last impression he saw, before his head hit the floor, was of a strange half-mask which somehow managed to glare at him.

Author Note: Ya know why this chapter was so long in coming out? Because it's crap, and the whole story is slow and I'm not gonna write another chapter unless I can think of a way to do something about it! At least get them kissing or talking or anything that will maybe make this a bit faster. Thank you to anyone who is still reading and does take the time to review, and thanks again to my awesome cool beta, the ever helpful (and gorgeous) Alchemy Hael, who made a lot of changes with me so drop a line if you notice a spot where our edits overlapped and got a bit freaky.


	5. The First Meeting

Chapter Title: The First Meeting

If there was a worse feeling than waking up cold and confused on a hard floor it was waking up cold and confused and unable remember where the damn bathroom was. For a minute, the throbbing head, the unfamiliar surroundings, and the sense of confusion made him think that he'd lost even more of his memory. But as he sat up and caught sight of himself in the mirror it all came rushing back, well maybe not all, but as much as he'd had upon arriving at the Opera Populaire. And then he'd walked out of the room, gone down a hallway and… he'd ended up here.

He'd been looking for a bathroom, a bathroom for goodness sake! And here was the real blow to his pride, he'd _found_ one, and then he'd gotten lost on his way back to Christine's room. He sighed and looked around the room yet again. It was huge, filled with props from performances gone by, dusty and obviously one of the few parts of the theater untouched by the fire. The door couldn't have just disappeared he thought angrily.

As odd as this place is it can't possibly- His train of thought was derailed as something white floated down in front of him. He looked down at the folded piece of paper for a moment and then glanced around suspiciously.

"Hello?" he said. No one answered. Raoul sighed and bent down to pick up the paper. He opened the slip of paper and read it. And then he looked up again.

"Is this a joke?" he called.

_Leave_ the note read. It was signed O.G.

There was no response for a few seconds, almost long enough for Raoul to start seriously considering the possibility that this was a dream, but then a voice came out of the air above him. It was a rich voice, lovely to listen to, but the tone was angry and almost condescending.

"You needn't bother keeping up the charade, you're speaking to a master of deception, Vicomte," it said, "I don't know what you expect to get out of this ridiculous ploy, but rest assured it shall not work. Honestly, how did you ever come up with this? And why? I certainly hope you aren't somehow blaming me for Christine's death. I let her go because you said you'd protect her from _everything_."

There was another few seconds silence while Raoul digested this information, and then, after careful review, he came up with a response.

"What?"

"Oh don't play coy!" The voice said, and suddenly it wasn't just in the rafters, it was behind him and beside him and echoing throughout the entire hall. It was almost frightening the way that voice filled up all the air around him, like if he breathed he'd take it into his own lungs.

And it made Raoul angry.

"Who do you think you are, monsieur?" he said angrily, "Playing a silly game like this, I could have you arrested for being here."

Erik growled low in the back off his throat, "You wish to play a game, you foolish child?" he whispered to himself, "Fine, let us play."

"I'm the Opera Ghost of course.," he shouted to the child below him, "O.G."

Raoul gave a derisive snort. "Oh really."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Really."

"I don't believe you."

"My heart is breaking." Erik said dryly, "You don't _have _to believe me."

"I demand that you show yourself!"

Erik glared at the young man in front of him, his temper growing shorter by the minute. "No." He gritted out through clenched teeth.

"Why?" Raoul taunted, "Afraid I'll expose _your _little 'Ghost' game?"

Erik seethed. This was too much. Did the child actually think brave words would convince him? He would show the little fool how unprepared he was to take on the Phantom.

"Hmm? Who are you really?" Raoul continued to taunt, unaware of the dark shadow detaching itself from the rafters and circling silently behind him.

"Ah ha!" Raoul yelled triumphantly as he yanked a covering cloth away from a huge piece of scenery. A fiery scene from hell greeted him, complete with painted black demons clutching their human prey, smiles of devious harm on their misshapen faces. Raoul frowned.

"Come now," he said as he started to turn around, "At least tell me your name, unless your afra-" he cut off as he was slammed into the sturdy scenery by one of the painted demons come to life.

"Erik," hissed the demon as he circled a length of rope around the Vicomte's neck. "I doubt you'll ever have a chance to use it."

The noose itself, had he been expecting it, wouldn't have posed such a problem, but the man in front of him, this Erik, had his entire body pinned to the wall, the air forced out him by the strength of the hit. It took a little over 45 seconds all told, for him to run out of air and strength to fight. Then, with black dots dancing in front of his eyes, he heard another voice whispering something in the back of his mind. A woman's voice softly singing, oh so softly, like the breath of memory

_Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said good bye, remember me_-

And then the voice changed and flowed into another melody, a duet with one other voice melting with hers… Erik let up suddenly and Raoul gasped and collapsed to his knees. Erik turned to go and Raoul grabbed his pant leg.

"Stop," he croaked out. And for a moment Erik was actually stunned into doing just that. He turned and gave a disbelieving look to the little idiot who had somehow managed to scramble to his feet, using the wall for support.

"Stop," he said again and anger flare in Erik at being commanded in so sure a tone but Raoul took no notice and continued speaking, "I know you, I know your voice, I –"

Erik slammed him back into the wall, a fist clenched into the soft material of Raoul's shirt. "So you admit it!"

"I just remembered your voice!" Raoul choked out, "I… I heard you, singing, with a woman, and I knew, I _knew _that she was Christine. I'm positive, it _must_ have been her!" Erik tried to pull away but Raoul grabbed for him, "Please, you knew her, tell me how!"

"Get off me you stupid child!" Erik roared and yanked his arm up violently and away.

This would have been the end of it if he hadn't been choking Raoul to death only a few seconds ago, or if Raoul hadn't lunged away from his wall support trying to hold onto Erik. But he had and Raoul had and it just so happened that Raoul's unbalanced body toppled forward into Erik's likewise unbalance body and both stumbled into a giant rocking horse. Erik moved his head down trying to grab at the reins and Raoul moved his head up to say something to him and with a mysterious set of coincidences (that people often call fate) their lips met.

Erik was the first to recover. Well, perhaps recover was not the word, but he was the first to react on instinct, which he had become quite good at. He shoved the fool away and into a pile of old costumes, and by the time Raoul had struggled back out he was long gone.

Author Note: I just wanted to say… something actually happens in this chapter. It's exciting. It means the chapters after this will be more fun to write. Also, this chapter is dedicated to two people, Psychonerd5 and shadowsaremyfortress. You guys rock, I can't begin to tell you how nice it is to get your reviews every chapter. I actually considered not updating if you guys didn't review. I was like, what's the point? (I was feeling pretty insecure about the fic as you can tell) Thanks again to my Beta Alchemy Hael, once again folks, go read her fic! It's not POTO but it's cute and slashy and all that good stuff that makes ya go _Mmm_.


	6. Mornings After Are Always Hell

Chapter Title: Mornings After Are Always Hell

Warning: A quick warning to everyone who might be reading this…

This will be slash, not now, not this particular chapter, but soon. And slash is a homosexual relationship between two men, which is, ya know, sexual. And stuff.

Just so everyone knows.

It wasn't just that people didn't know. If they didn't know they would have said, _We don't know_, instead they shifted their eyes to the left or right or they glanced behind themselves and muttered things about letting dead dogs lie and leaving the past in its grave. Even for a man who had no recollection of his wife as an anything other than a childhood friend the words stung and the pitying looks he got made him cringe on the inside.

It was enough to drive a man to drink.

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It wasn't that people weren't talking about it. Erik had been through the entire building, listening in on everyone from the ballet rats to the managers themselves. But what they were saying didn't make sense. This was Opera after all, no one could actually keep a secret, least of all from him. Yet everywhere he turned there were frantic whispers in shadowed corners about Raoul's dangerous encounter with the Opera Ghost. And not the faintest breath about any plot the child had made to draw him out.

"_Poor man, the grief is still getting to him, even without his memories of her…"_

'_Oh the unfortunate child, probably hallucinating from that nasty fall he took…' _

'_The dear heart, best not to tell him too much about what really happened, it might unhinge him further…'_

And from the ever inventive corps de ballet…

'_The Phantom is a real Ghost now and he's come back from the grave to kill Raoul!' _

'_Oh no, he's become a real angel like Christine said! He's carrying messages to Raoul from her_…'

It was enough to drive a man to kill.

In the end there wasn't really anything to do about it except what he'd always done. The Vicomte had apparently stepped out for drink, approximately three hours ago … but when he returned there would be something waiting for him.

A Note.

My Foolish Rival,

I grow tired of your games. Perhaps this token will jog your memory. Meet me in Box 5 at midnight tonight.

O.G.

Author's Note: Yeah, I may have more kissy-kissy stuff in the next chapter. After that things sorta heat up. I'm excited yet nervous, seeing as how I really don't know what I'm doing with this smut stuff. I hope no one hates me soon! Sorry about the short chapters and the long time between updates, my beta broke all ten of her fingers. She ended up editing this using nothing but a McDonald's straw, a bit of super glue and her old hockey mouth guard. True story. A big thanks again to anyone who reviews; I've discovered that my writing is directly linked to how soon I get those magic e-mails.


	7. At The Promised Hour

Chapter title: At The Promised Hour

Author's Notes: My Beta spent the night to try and get me over my writer's block, I think it's the longest chapter yet. I want to apologize, no matter how hard I try there are still plot holes (like, "why doesn't Erik just strangle Raoul and desecrate his corpse?), I can't fix them all, if you see something glaring tell me. Also, "kiss off" I use this phrase, I've heard others use it, my beta thinks I'm crazy but I like it and it worked in the chapter so just go with it. Finishing up, you get a mental cookie if you catch the _Grinch_ reference. wink I LOVE YOU ALCHEMY!

What could the man hope to achieve with this madness? Was it grief?

For a moment, Erik considered the possibility that the Vicomte might not be weaving some tale for foolish revenge. He did seem to be genuinely confused when last they met. For a moment he considered it before renouncing the idea. Of course not. Erik smirked at the thought that the vicomte might have made an excellent actor. Raoul had almost convinced him of his sincerity. But he would have to be good at such tricks, to convince Christine that he was worthy of her hand.

But after that moment, the thought never left him completely. Could he be telling the truth? Despite the dozen or so reasonable alternative ideas for Raoul's behavior, that one thought would not leave his mind. Flittering at the edges of thought never revealing itself but always making itself known. At the end of it, hearing Raoul's steps get closer, Erik finally confronted the possibility. It was feasible, no man who considered himself a genius would ever completely disregard any reasonable conclusion, no matter how distasteful.

And it was distasteful.

Having devised a solution to every possibility but that one, Erik felt an instant's uncertainty. What could he do should the lie prove true?

Genius he might be but genius required time, time he did not have with Raoul seconds away. As the door to box five opened, breaking the dark with a line of light, Erik might have prayed, were he the praying sort: _Let it be untrue._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Raoul stared at the door as he walked to it, he wouldn't show any hesitancy on the threshold, wouldn't give this strange "Erik" any perceived advantage, so he had to do his doubting on the wing. Walking into the Ghost's Box was… stupid. Doing it at midnight went beyond stupid and into the land of insanity. But here he was, alone and unarmed, and waiting to face a madman who thought he was a ghost. He turned smartly at the door and reached for the handle. Well at least he'd have a traveling companion in the land of the mentally unstable.

Walking in was just as unnerving as he thought it would be, the brightly lit hallway ill prepared him for the dark of the Box, with it's curtains draw and nothing, for a moment, but inky blackness for him to focus on. And then he was half turning, calmly, to shut the door; and turning back, just as calmly, to leaning against the door in as relaxed a fashion as was possible.

For several moments there was quiet, until Raoul began to honestly consider the possibility that he was not, in fact, remaining calm and collected in the presence of a madman, but that he was standing in an empty room and acting like a complete ninny. A solution was needed, one that would reveal if he was wrong and wouldn't ruin his image if he was right. He shifted slightly and felt the slight weight of his cigar case in his breast pocket. Ah ha.

It took only a moment to get a slender cigar out by touch alone, in a casual almost bored gesture; and the work of just seconds to pull out a match and strike it. At which point it was almost violently blown out by a sudden and nearly supernatural wind.

"I do not allow smoking in my Box, Vicomte. It's bad for the furniture, not to mention the highly flammable, slow drying varnish they applied to the door three hours ago."

"Damn it!" Raoul yanked away from the door and flinched at the slight sense of pull the still drying varnish gave to his jacket… and his hair. So much for calm and collected.

The indignation disappeared in a moment as he was roughly shoved onto the small, plush settee off to the right of the door. He cursed himself quietly for stepping away from the wall to where he knew he'd be more vulnerable. Feeling the back of his hair sticking to the couch, Raoul felt a flash of worry for the seat's condition. _My God, he's got me doing it._

"I thought you were concerned for the furniture." He said instead, trying to follow the slightly darker form that was Erik among the other shadows.

A scornful laugh followed, "I'll just have it removed to the Manager's Box, show them how generous I can be."

Had Raoul not been a gentleman he might have sneered, "What do you know of generosity?"

"_You_ have no right to say such a thing to me!" Erik hissed darkly. "When it was _I_ that released you and allowed you to marry!"

"And who were you to me, that you could have stopped me?" Raoul countered.

"I could have stopped you; I _should_ have stopped you, if this is how you return! Pretending to forget her and forgetting _my_ sacrifice!"

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Erik would admit, were he in his right mind, that he wasn't be quite as a clear as he should have been. But the fog of red that was beginning to roll in from the corner of his eyes was inflaming his brain with little pulses of blood and rage. And Raoul, just sitting there, almost lounging across the seat, as though he didn't know how close he was to having his neck strangled. Because, really, a new widower with a brain injury skulking in the shadows of his lover's past. Who wouldn't believe him capable of hanging himself off the edge of one of the Boxes?

Well, the managers maybe.

And Giry.

And probably every single person who had worked in the Opera Populaire for the past five years…

His mind paused for a moment when it suddenly occurred to him that Raoul's mouth had been moving and the slight vibration at the back of his throat meant that he had been replying for some time now. He wondered if the fact that he could contemplate murder and carry on a conversation was further proof of his descent into insanity.

A conscious effort to suppress the loud beating in his head allowed him to hear the tail end of a long string of insults.

"-and if you don't like it you can just f-, p-, kiss off!"

Then he got an idea!  
An awful idea!  
The Phantom got a wonderful, awful idea!

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Just when Raoul had finally managed to work up the anger necessary to actually question the infuriating man in front of him, Erik's face changed. Or, really, his stance changed, his _face_ was a mystery. But the lines of his silhouette went suddenly lax, and a sense of…foreboding seemed to come over Raoul at the sudden loss of resistance, like he'd been pulling on a rope and the other person had suddenly let go. Mentally he stumbled. The feeling was such that moving, even shifting a little, would be out of the question. He realized that while Erik's face might be covered by a mask his eyes were reflecting just the tiniest bit of light as he stared hard at the man in front of him. Raoul felt bound to the couch under that black stare, like a rope of the other man's will wrapped around and held him in place. He could almost feel the burn of ropes at his wrist scratching against coarse strands, it was so intense. When those eyes finally shifted away, the release almost left him in shock, so that he almost didn't notice the body following the path laid out by those eyes. Almost, but he _was_ aware. Not that it helped. The man moved so fast it was almost like he really was some supernatural creature appearing wherever he wished, a true spectre. But he'd never felt a ghost that gave off such heat. Hot lips pressed against his own and hands wrapped around his wrists like bands of iron right out of the forge. Raoul was too stunned to realize what had happened until the ivory white mask was pulling away. He looked to his wrists where they still burned to see gloved hands gripping them tightly. His lips were hot and he took a glance up with his head still tilted downward to seek out the other man's lips, see if they'd glow red like the brand they'd felt like, but the shadows swallowed up most of what the mask left unhidden.

There was a look in Erik's eyes, now that he was so close, waiting, questioning. And then the lips were back on him again, stealing away perspective and pressing even harder against his mouth, a gasp from him seemed to open them both up and then… melting, falling into the heat as their mouths sealed together in the dark. Erik's voice whispering in the back of his mind. _"When it was _I_ that released you…" "I should have stopped you, if this is how you return! "… forgetting _my_ sacrifice!" _

The second gasp ripped their mouths apart instead of bringing them closer, as Raoul tried to assign some other meaning to words and actions that really, probably, didn't have any other meaning. What the hell had he been thinking? He tried to reach for the masked man in front of him, intent on forcing answers out of him about whatever… relationship they'd had. But he was gone in a second, just one more shadow in a pitch black room. And Raoul was left alone.


	8. A Taste To Whet The Appetite

Author Notes: I suck, I haven't updated in forever, y'all probably think I'm retarded. I have moved to a new state and my Beta is in training in another (you're gonna be great Al) and did I mention I'm in college now? Not a good excuse I know, but I wanted to share. Here it is, it's gotten steamy, I hope everyone likes it (and isn't offended by it) if you wanna know what made me pick this back up again it was an editorial called "On Feedback" at It made me realize I couldn't leave my readership hanging just because I couldn't get my stuff perfect. Thanks again to psychonerd and shadowsaremyfortress, and a... Mithril Maiden (?) who kicked me a bit but it was in a well meaning manner, as well as MJ MOD, who made me laugh and who really, really should not read this particular chapter…

Warning: sexual content, slash, "self-love", voy.

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Erik was stalking the Vicomte. There, he could at least admit it to himself. Not that he didn't have a good reason to keep a close eye on the tricky young man. It had been three days since the confusing meeting in Box 5 that was, in retrospect, obviously a plot meant to deceive him. Raoul had seen first hand how deeply his craving for physical contact and companionship was. And the arrogant, conceited, utterly vain fool actually thought he was irresistible enough to tempt him!

He was of course, but that was hardly the point. He had toyed with the idea of playing the Vicomte's little game, to see just how far he could push him before _Raoul_ realized just how out of his league he was. And then Erik could push him just a little bit farther. A small shudder ran through his frame as he contemplated the idea. Humiliating his rival that way would be sweet enough, but the thought of what he could do to him before that happened sent a wave of heat washing out from the center of his body.

He found himself, a half an hour later, watching the boy from the safety of the mirror, on the pretense of spying on the enemy. Although, if he was being honest with himself, there was no reason to be timing this little visit to when the lovely young man was undressing for bed.

Raoul in the meantime, was completely unaware of his unseen audience, and was following the nightly routine of the normal male, which apparently required that when faced with a full length mirror, any man must spend at least two minutes half naked in front of it, flexing and generally appraising his physique. Erik had called in disfigured on that particular day at the male charm school, and had thus spent this time split between appreciation and exasperation. A point in the boy's favor had been the self-deprecating smile he'd given himself before turning from the mirror.

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As he turned a flash of red had caught Raoul's eye and his gaze was drawn to the small table where a single red rose stood, resting in a clear glass vase. It's stem tied with a black ribbon and its petal now almost ready to bloom. He walked over to it, picking it up carefully to avoid the thorns, and then slowly retuned to stand in front of the mirror studying the rose intently. He twisted the stem slowly in his fingers, and the petals gave a delicate pirouette, spinning their lovely fragrance out into the air. He brushed the flower across his mouth on an impulse, letting his eyes sink closed, and breathed in their fragrance as the petals rolled across his lips.

A sound like a small gasp seemed to echo his own breath and his eyes flashed open, giving a guilty glance around the room. The door was closed and no one would disturb him anyway, but still he bit his lip as he looked back to the rose. He brushes it against his lips again, inhaling the sweet scent again, and then the rose seems to glide across his cheek of its own will, the silk soft petals caressing his skin. He tilts his head back and the rose runs, oh so naturally, down the long line of his throat, as his other hand comes to rest lightly on his abdomen.

He lets the soft flower run aimlessly across his neck and chest for a moment until the edge of a petal catches on an already hardening nipple. A small groan escapes his mouth and his other hand slips lower to caress the skin beneath the waist of his drawers. His head bent forward he rests his cheek against the strangely warm surface of the mirror and lets his hand slip lower and lower while the rose continues its unmapped journey across his body, leaving it's perfume behind it, as a reminder of its passage.

Another small sound escaped him as he finally began to stroke himself, breathing deep gasps of rose scented air and trying not to crush the rose against his body. He groaned softly when he finally wrapped his hand around himself and began to move to a slow rhythm. The rose stopped its journey as he used the hand that held it to brace himself against the mirror. His breathing began to get ragged as he came closer and closer, his hand squeezing reflexively around the flower. A thorn penetrated the soft skin of his palm, forcing a name from his lips, and himself over the edge.

When his eyes flickered open again, he was almost flush against the mirror, and when his eyes found their reflection, he blushed crimson. Eyes half-lidded, breath uneven, and sweat beading at his temples he looked…wanton. The blush deepened and he quickly withdrew from the mirror, and then even more quickly moved to drop the rose at the table, where it left a small smear of blood. The wound in his hand throbbed in response to the sight and Raoul quietly sighed and cleaned up both his hands as best as he could, before climbing into the bed his fiancé had used. He breathed in her soft, powdery scent and found no relief in it. Things, he thought, would have to be clearer in the morning light.

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Erik had not moved from his place behind the mirror. Even once Raoul had moved away from it, he had stayed flush against the glass, feeling the smooth surface as it slowly cooled. And as Raoul climbed into bed with an obviously troubled look on his face, Erik's ability to think had returned, and things suddenly became much clearer.

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Author Notes P.S.: Please don't hate me, my Beta got a review for her fic that was so mean, it just said, "This is so gross. Dorian is not gay." Too awful! I would cry.


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